  Onward To kill Pillage Only a few days before the lighted candles of a chapel. A young monk in prayer. Quietude in his soul. The brown habit—the crucifix lay forgotten. The maddening din of battle. Its fury burned his soul. He had been left an orphaned child. At the monastery. His name was Igor. Some whispered he was the son of a great nobleman. None knew for sure. At first his clean soul rebelled at the thought of war, his dark eyes flashed. Thou shalt not kill called from afar—but the cannons deafened him They entered the courtyard—into the castle hall. Had its dwellers fled along the muddy roads and fields of Belgium No Some women still— A young one, watching for escape Another with graying hair and soft eyes. She had stayed. Her sins perhaps would be forgiven on the Altar of Sacrifice. Burning anguish. She had sinned against God.—Against her husband. Long ago. Remorse still clung in her heart. Igor drew back—but was pushed on by others, rude, boisterous, toward the wine cellars. Thou shalt not kill faintly—but a breaking bottle dimmed the sound. The wine heated, wakened dormant senses. More wine With shouts and cries the tottering men came from the cellar—Laughed at the woman with graying hair She was shielding a girl whose eyes resembled Igor's. The girl who had watched to escape. And could not The uniform, the sabre— Gone was the memory of a brown habit. He came nearer. Was it a woman— He clasped her. Her soft hair brushed his face. Other soldiers came—dragged her from him. Fought over her like powerful beasts, heeding not the mother— Igor—protect her In a drunken rage he caught the girl to the open win I'll kill her he screamed. You—who seem to know my name. The crime was spared him. Her lifeless body slipped from his arms. Igor, gasped the mother, You have killed— I'll kill you!—the wine had infuriated—he lifted his sabre— Stop—you are my son Dazed—he heard the words but understood not. A night of drunkenness, of horror, had passed in the Belgian chateau. The captors had damaged—broken—destroyed. The sun was setting on a second day—when Igor awoke. The first time in his life he awakened from drink. He reached out expecting to find the rough wall of the monastery He felt a dead body—the sharp edge of a sabre— Where— Orders had come The army Had there been battles— —And slowly memory returned— Stop—you are my son. Who had said it—was it long ago—No. Only after the wine cellar— He sat up—on the floor—where drunkenness had overcome him. The horrible memory of his crime swept over him. His mother— He seized the body and gazed at the staring eyes. Then this was the remorse the older monks had told him—had been his father's— And he—her son—had plunged his sabre into her heart His own was bursting. And this girl. He had not killed her—she had died— Was she—his sister—only of a different father— We are through—burn A hard line played on the lips of the commander The flames leapt from room to room— Igor— The smoke—it was overcoming him— His mother— He had forgotten how to pray An unutterable abyss. The horror of war The fire blazed upward—smoke filled the room— There's the bell—he staggered to his feet—It is ringing Tell Brother John to light the candles—he walked into the flames— I am coming. |
|
